“Look. Elinor and Ann are here: they came in this morning.”
“Where are they?” Excitement, sharp and sudden as an electric shock, shot through him. “Here? Downstairs?”
“No: they’ve gone shopping. I’m meeting them at Prunier’s for lunch. Ann said she might come by to see you later on.”
“Before lunch?”
“Ace,” said Starwick. “Look,” he said again, in his casual, mannered tone, “I don’t suppose you’d care to come to lunch with us?”
“Thanks,” Eugene answered stiffly, “but I can’t. I’ve got another engagement.”
Starwick’s face flushed crimson2 with the agonizing3 shyness and embarrassment4 which the effort cost him. He leaned upon his cane5 and looked out of the window as he spoke6.
“Then, look,” he said, “Elinor asks to be remembered to you.” He was silent a moment, and then continued with painful difficulty: “We’re all going to the Louvre after lunch: I want to see the Cimabue once more before we leave.”
“When are you leaving?”
“Tomorrow,” Starwick said. “— Look!” he spoke carefully, looking out of the window, “we’re leaving the Louvre at four o’clock. . . . I thought . . . if you were going to be over that way. . . . I think Elinor would like to see you before she goes. . . . We’ll be there at the main entrance.” The anguish7 which the effort had cost him was apparent: he kept looking away out of the window, leaning on his cane, and for a moment his ruddy face was contorted by the old, bestial8 grimace9 of inarticulate pain and grief which the other had noticed the first time they had met, in Cambridge, years before. Then Starwick, without glancing at Eugene, turned towards the door. For a moment he stood, back turned, idly tapping with his cane against the wall.
“It would be nice if you could meet us there. If not —”
He turned, and for the last time in life the two young men looked squarely at one another, and each let the other see, without evasion10 or constraint11, the image of his soul. Henceforth, each might glimpse from time to time some shadow-flicker of the other’s life, the destiny of each would curiously13 be interwoven through twinings of dark chance and tragic14 circumstance, but they would never see each other face to face again.
Now, looking steadily15 at him before he spoke, and with the deep conviction of his spirit, the true image of his life, apparent in his face, his eyes, his tone and manner, Starwick said:
“If I don’t see you again, good-bye, Eugene.” He was silent for a moment and, the colour flaming in his face from the depth and earnestness of his feeling, he said quietly: “It was good to have known you. I shall never forget you.”
“Nor I you, Frank,” the other said. “No matter what has happened — how we feel about each other now — you had a place in my life that no one else has ever had.”
“And what was that?” said Starwick.
“I think it was that you were young — my own age — and that you were my friend. Last night after — after that thing happened,” he went on, his own face flushing with the pain of memory, “I thought back over all the time since I have known you. And for the first time I realized that you were the first and only person of my own age that I could call my friend. You were my one true friend — the one I always turned to, believed in with unquestioning devotion. You were the only real friend that I ever had. Now something else has happened. You have taken from me something that I wanted, you have taken it without knowing that you took it, and it will always be like this. You were my brother and my friend —”
“And now?” said Starwick quietly.
“You are my mortal enemy. Good-bye.”
“Good-bye, Eugene,” said Starwick sadly. “But let me tell you this before I go. Whatever it was I took from you, it was something that I did not want or wish to take. And I would give it back again if I could.”
“Oh, fortunate and favoured Starwick,” the other jeered17. “To be so rich — to have such gifts and not to know he has them — to be for ever victorious18, and to be so meek19 and mild.”
“And I will tell you this as well,” Starwick continued. “Whatever anguish and suffering this mad hunger, this impossible desire, has caused you, however fortunate or favoured you may think I am, I would give my whole life if I could change places with you for an hour — know for an hour an atom of your anguish and your hunger and your hope. . . . Oh, to feel so, suffer so, and live so! — however mistaken you may be! . . . To have come lusty, young, and living into this world . . . not to have come, like me, still-born from your mother’s womb — never to know the dead heart and the passionless passion — the cold brain and the cold hopelessness of hope — to be wild, mad, furious, and tormented20 — but to have belief, to live in anguish, but to live — and not to die.” . . . He turned and opened the door. I would give all I have and all you think I have, for just one hour of it. You call me fortunate and happy. YOU are the most fortunate and happy man I ever knew. Good-bye, Eugene.”
“Good-bye, Frank. Good-bye, my enemy.”
“And good-bye, my friend,” said Starwick. He went out, and the door closed behind him.
Eugene was waiting for them at four o’clock that afternoon when they came out from the Louvre. As he saw them coming down the steps together he felt a sudden, blind rush of affection for all of them, and saw that all of them were fine people. Elinor came towards him instantly, and spoke to him warmly, kindly21, and sincerely, without a trace of mannerism22 or affectation or concealed23 spitefulness. Starwick stood by quietly while he talked to Elinor: Ann looked on sullenly24 and dumbly and thrust her hands in the pockets of her fur jacket. In the dull, grey light they looked like handsome, first-rate, dignified26 people, who had nothing mean or petty in them and with whom nothing but a spacious27, high and generous kind of life was possible. By comparison, the Frenchmen coming from the museum and streaming past them looked squalid and provincial28; and the Americans and other foreigners had a shabby, dull, inferior look. For a moment the bitter and passionate29 enigma30 of life pierced him with desperation and wild hope. What was wrong with life? What got into people such as these to taint31 their essential quality, to twist and warp32 and mutilate their genuine and higher purposes? What were these perverse33 and evil demons34 of cruelty and destructiveness, of anguish, error and confusion that got into them, that seemed to goad35 them on, with a wicked and ruinous obstinacy36, deliberately37 to do the things they did not want to do — the things that were so shamefully38 unworthy of their true character and their real desire?
It was maddening because it was so ruinous, so wasteful39 and so useless; and because it was inexplicable40. As these three wonderful, rare and even beautiful people stood there saying to him good-bye, every movement, look, and word they uttered was eloquent41 with the quiet but passionate and impregnable conviction of the human faith. Their quiet, serious, and affectionate eyes, their gestures, their plain, clear, and yet affectionate speech, even the instinctive42 tenderness that they felt towards one another which seemed to join them with a unity43 of living warmth and was evident in the way they stood, glanced at each other, or in swift, instinctive gestures — all this with a radiant, clear, and naked loveliness seemed to speak out of them in words no one could misunderstand, to say:
“Always there comes a moment such as this when, poised44 here upon the ledge45 of furious strife46, we stand and look; the marsh-veil shifts from the enfevered swamp, the phantoms47 are dispersed48 like painted smoke, and standing49 here together, friend, we all see clear again, our souls are tranquil50 and our hearts are quiet — and we have what we have, we know what we know, we are what we are.”
It seemed to him that all these people now had come to such a moment that this clear peace and knowledge rested in their hearts and spoke out of their eyes; it seemed to him that all his life, for years, since he had first gone to the dark North and known cities — since he had first known Starwick — was now a phantasmal nightmare — a kaleidoscope of blind, furious days, and drunken and diverted nights, the measureless sea-depth of incalculable memory, an atom lost and battered51 in a world of monstrous52 shapes, and deafened53 in a word of senseless, stupefying war and movement and blind fury. And it seemed to him now that for the first time he — and all of them — had come to a moment of clarity and repose54, and that for the first time their hearts saw and spoke the truth that lies buried in all men, that all men know.
Elinor had taken him by the hand and was saying quietly:
“I am sorry that you will not go with us. We have had a strange and hard and desperate time together, but that is over now, Eugene: we have all been full of pain and trouble, and all of us are sorry for the things we’ve done. I want you to know that we all love you, and will always think of you with friendship, as our friend, and will hope that you are happy, and will rejoice in your success as if it were our own. . . . And now, good-bye, my dear; try to think of us always as we think of you — with love and kindness. Do not forget us; always remember us with a good memory, the way we shall remember you. . . . Perhaps”— for a moment her face was touched with her gay, rueful smile —“perhaps when I’m an old Boston lady with a cat, a parrot, and a canary, you will come to see me. I will be a nice old lady, then — but also I will be a ruined old lady — for they don’t forget — not in a lifetime, not in Boston — and this time, darling, I have gone too far. So I shan’t have many callers, I shall leave them all alone — and if you’re not too rich, too famous, and too proper by that time, perhaps you’ll come to see me. . . . Now, good-bye.”
“Good-bye, Elinor,” he said. “And good luck to you.”
“Look,” said Starwick quietly, “we’re going on — Elinor and I . . . I thought . . . if you’re not doing anything else . . . perhaps you and Ann might have dinner together.”
“I’m — I’m not,” he stammered55, looking at Ann, “but maybe you . . .”
“No,” she muttered, staring sullenly and miserably56 at the ground. “I’m not either.”
“Then,” Starwick said, “we’ll see you later, Ann. . . . And good-bye, Eugene.”
“Good-bye, Frank.”
They shook hands together for the last time, and Starwick and Elinor turned and walked away. Thus, with such brief and casual words, the bond of friendship — all of the faith, belief and passionate avowal57 of their youth — was for ever broken. They saw each other once thereafter: by chance their lives would have strange crossings; but they never spoke to each other again.
They waited in awkward silence for a moment until they saw Starwick and Elinor get into a taxi and drive off. Then they walked away together across the great quadrangle of the Louvre. A haze58 of bluish mist, soft, smoky as a veil, hung in the air across the vista’d sweep of the Tuileries and the Place de la Concorde. The little taxis drilled across the great space between the vast wings of the Louvre and through the arches, filling the air with wasp-like drone and menace, the shrill59 excitement of their tootling horns. And through that veil of bluish haze the vast mysterious voice of Paris reached their ears: it was a sound immense and murmurous60 as time, fused of the strident clamours of its four million subjects, and yet, strangely muted, seductive, sensuous61, cruel and thrilling, filled with life and death. The mysterious fragrance62 of that life filled Eugene with the potent63 intoxication64 of its magic. He drew the pungent65 smoky air into his lungs, and it seemed freighted with the subtle incense66 of the great city’s hope and secret promise, with grief and joy and terror, with a wild and nameless hunger, with intolerable desire. It numbed67 his entrails and his loins with sensual prescience, and it made his heart beat hard and fast; his breath came quickly: it was mixed into the pulses of his blood and gave to grief and joy and sorrow the wild mixed anguish beating in his heart, its single magic, its impalpable desire.
They walked slowly across the great Louvre court and through the gigantic masonries of the arch into the Rue16 de Rivoli. The street was swarming68 with its dense70 web of afternoon: the sensuous complications of its life and traffic, the vast honeycomb of business and desire; the street was jammed with its brilliant snarl71 of motors, with shout and horn and cry, and with the throbbing72 menace of machinery73, and on the other side, beneath arched colonnades74, the crowd was swarming in unceasing flow.
They crossed the street and made their way through a thronging75 maze76 into the Place de la Comédie Fran?aise, and found a table on the terrace of La Régence. The pleasant old café was gay with all its chattering77 groups of afternoon, and yet, after the great boil and fury of the streets, it was strangely calm, detached, and pleasant, too. The little separate verandahs of its terrace, the tables and the old settees and walls, gave the café an incredibly familiar and intimate quality, as if one were seated in a pleasant booth that looked out on life, a box in an old theatre whose stage was the whole world.
In one of the friendly booth-like verandahs of this pleasant old café they found a table in a corner, seats against the wall, and sat down and gave their order to the waiter. Then, for some time, as they drank their brandy, they looked out at the flashing pulsations of the street, and did not speak.
Presently Ann, without looking at him, in her level, curt78, and almost grimly toneless speech, said:
“What did you and Frank do last night?”
Excitement caught him; his pulse beat faster; he glanced quickly at her, and said:
“Oh, nothing. We went out to eat, walked round a bit: that was all.”
“Out all night?” she said curtly79.
“No. I turned in early. I was home by twelve o’clock.”
“What happened to Frank?”
He looked at her sharply, startled. “Happened? What do you mean — ‘what happened to him?’”
“What did he do when you went home?”
“How should I know? He went back to the studio, I suppose. Why do you want to know?”
She made no answer for a moment, but sat looking sullenly into the street. When she spoke again, she did not look at him, her voice was level, hard, and cold, quietly, grimly inflectionless.
“Do you think it’s a very manly80 thing for a big hulking fellow like you to jump on a boy Frank’s size?”
Hot fury choked him, passed before his vision in a blinding flood. He ground his teeth, rocked gently back and forth12, and said in a small, stopped voice:
“Oh, so he told you, did he? He had to come whining81 to you about it, did he? The damned little . . .!”
“He told us nothing,” she said curtly. “Frank’s not that kind; he doesn’t whine82. Only, we couldn’t help noticing a lump on the back of his head the size of a goose egg, and it didn’t take me long to figure out the rest.” She turned and looked at him with a straight, unrelenting stare, and then said harshly:
“It was a wonderful thing to do, wasn’t it? I suppose you think that settles everything. You can be proud of yourself now, can’t you?”
The thin fine blade of cruel jealousy83 pierced him suddenly and was twisted in his heart. In a voice trembling with all the sweltering anguish and defeat that packed his overladen heart, he sneered84 in bitter parody85:
“Come now, Frankie, dear! — Did bad naughty mans crack little Frankie’s precious head? — There, there, dearie! — Mamma kiss and make it well . . . let nice big nursey-worsey kiss-um and make-um well! — Next time Frankie-pankie goes for a walk, big Boston nursey Ann will go wiv-ems, won’t she, pet, to see that wuff, wuff man leave poor little Frankie be.”
She reddened angrily, and said:
“No one’s trying to be Frankie’s nurse. He doesn’t need it, and he doesn’t want it. Only, I think it’s a rotten shame that a big hulking lout86 like you should have no more decency87 than to maul around as fine a person as Frank is. You ought to be ashamed of yourself; it was a rotten thing to do!”
“Why, you bitch!” he said slowly, in a low, strangled tone. “You nice, neat, eighteen-carat jewel of a snobby89 Boston bitch! — Go back to Boston where you came from!” he snarled90. “That’s where you belong; that’s all you’re worth. . . . So I’m a big, hulking lout, am I? And that damned little affected91 ?sthete’s the finest person that you ever knew! — Why, God-damn the lot of you for the cheap, lying, fakey Boston bitches that you are! — with your ‘he’s a SWELL92 person, he really is, you know,’—‘Oh, GRAND! Oh, SWELL! Oh, FINE!’” he jeered incoherently. “Why, damn you, who do you think you are, anyway? — that you think I’m going to stand for any more of your snobby Boston backwash! — So I’m a big, hulking lout, am I?”— the words rankled93 bitterly in his memory. “And dear, darling little Francis is too fine, too fine — oh, dearie me, now, yes — to have his precious little head cracked up against a wall by the likes of me. . . . Why, damn you, Ann!” he said in a grating voice, “what are you, anyway, but a damned dull lummox of a girl from Boston? Who the hell do you think you are, anyway, that I should sit here and take your snobby backwash and play second fiddle94 while two cheap Boston women praise Starwick up to the skies all day long and tell me what a great genius he is and how much finer than anyone else that ever lived? By God, it is to laugh!” he raved95 incoherently, blind with pain and passion, hindering his own progress by his foolish words of wounded pride. “— To see the damned affected ?sthete get it all! You’re not worth it! You’re not worth it!” he cried bitterly. “— You call me a big hulking lout — and I feel more, know more, see more, have more life and power and understanding in me in a minute than the whole crowd of you will ever have — why, I’m so much better than the rest of you that — that — that — there’s no comparison!” he said lamely96; and concluded: “Oh, you’re not worth it! You’re not worth it, Ann! Why should I get down on my knees to you this way, and worship you, and beg you for just one word of love and mercy — when you call me a big, hulking lout — and you are nothing but a rich, dull Boston snob88 — and you’re not worth it!” he cried desperately97. “Why has it got to be like this, when you’re not worth it, Ann?”
Her face flushed, and in a moment, laughing her short and angry laugh, she said:
“God! I can see this is going to be a pleasant evening, with you raving98 like a crazy man and passing out your compliments already.” She looked at him with bitter eyes, and said sarcastically99: “You say such nice things to people, don’t you? Oh, charming! Charming! Simply delightful100!” She laughed her sudden angry laugh again. “God! I’ll never forget some of the nice things that you said to me!”
And already tortured by remorse101 and shame, the huge, indefinable swelter of anguish in his heart, he caught her hand, and pleaded miserably, humbly102.
“Oh, I know! I know! — I’m sorry, Ann, and I’ll do better — so help me, God, I will!”
“Then why must you carry on like this?” she said. “Why do you curse and revile103 me and say such things about Francis, who is one of the finest people that ever lived and who has never said a word against you?”
“Oh, I know!” he groaned104 miserably, and smote105 his brow. “— I don’t mean to — it just gets the best of me — Ann, Ann! I love you so!”
“Yes,” she muttered, “a funny kind of love, when you can say such things to me!”
“And when I hear you praise up Starwick, it all comes back to me — and Christ! Christ! — why did it have to be this way? Why did it have to be Starwick that you —?”
She got up, her face flaring106 with anger and resentment107.
“Come on!” she said curtly. “If you can’t behave yourself — if you’re starting in on that — I’m not going to stay —”
“Don’t go! Don’t go!” he whispered, grabbing her hand and holding it in a kind of dumb anguish. “You said you’d stay! It’s just for a few hours longer — oh, don’t go and leave me, Ann! I’m sorry! I promise I’ll do better. It’s only when I think of it — oh, don’t go, Ann! Please don’t go! I try not to talk about it, but it gets the best of me! I’ll be all right now. I’ll not talk about it any more — if you won’t go. It you’ll just stay with me a little longer — it will be all right. I swear that everything will be all right if you don’t go.”
She stood straight and rigid108, her hands clenched109 convulsively at her sides, her eyes shot with tears of anger and bewilderment. She made a sudden baffled movement of frustration110 and despair, and cried bitterly:
“God! What is it all about? Why can’t people be happy, anyway?”
They made a furious circuit of the night. They went back to all the old places — to the places they had been to with Elinor and Starwick. They went to Le Rat Mort, to Le Coq et l’Ane, to Le Moulin Rouge111, to Le Bal Tabarin, to La Bolée, to the Jockey Club, to the Dome112 and the Rotonde — even to the Bal Bullier. They went to the big night resorts and to the little ones, to great café‘s and little bars, to dive and stew113 and joint114 and hole, to places frequented exclusively by the rich and fashionable — the foreigners, the wealthy French, the tourists, the expatriates — and to other places where the rich and fashionable went to peer down into the cauldrons of the lower depths at all those creatures who inhabited the great swamp of the night — the thieves, the prostitutes, the rogues115, the pimps, the lesbians and the pederasts — the human excrement116, the damned and evil swarm69 of sourceless evil that crawled outward from the rat-holes of the dark, lived for a period in the night’s huge blaze of livid radiance, and then were gone, vanished, melted away as by an evil magic into that trackless labyrinth117 from which they came.
Where had it gone? That other world of just six weeks before, with all its nocturnal and unholy magic, now seemed farther off and stranger than a dream. It was impossible to believe that these shabby places of garish118 light, and tarnished119 gold, and tawdry mirrors, were the same resorts that had glowed in all their hot and close perfumes just six weeks before, had burned there in the train of night like some evil, secret and unholy temple of desire. It was all worn off now: cheap as Coney Island, tawdry, tarnished as the last year’s trappings of a circus, bedraggled, shabby as a harlot’s painted face at noon. All of its sinister120 and intoxicating121 magic had turned dull and pitiably sordid122: its people were pathetic, and its music dead — serving only to recall the splendid evil people and the haunting music of six weeks before.
And they saw now that this was just the way it was, the way it had always been. Places, people, music — they were just the same. All that had changed had been themselves. And all through the night they went from place to place, drinking, watching, dancing, doing just the things they had always done, but it was no good — it had all gone stale — it would never be any good again. They sat there sullenly, like people at a waning123 carnival124, haunted by the ghosts of memory and departure. The memory of Elinor and Starwick — and particularly of Starwick — haunted each place they went to like a death’s-head at a feast. And again Eugene was filled with the old, choking, baffled, and inchoate125 anger, the sense of irretrievable and certain defeat: Starwick in absence was even more triumphantly126 alive than if he had been there — he alone, by the strange, rare quality in him, had been able to give magic to this sordid carnival, and now that he was gone, the magic had gone, too.
The night passed in a kaleidoscope of baffled fury, of frenzied127 search and frustrate128 desire. All night they hustled129 back and forth between the two blazing poles of Montmartre and Montparnasse: later he was to remember everything like the exploded fragments of a nightmare — a vision of dark, silent streets, old shuttered houses, the straight slant130 and downward plunge131 out of Montmartre — the sudden blaze of lights at crossings, boulevards, in cafés, night-clubs, bars and avenues, the cool plunge and shock of air along dark streets again, the taxi’s shrill horn tootling at space, empty reckless corners, the planted stems of light across the Seine, the bridges and the sounding arches and dark streets, the steep slant of the hill, the livid glare of night and all the night’s scarred faces over again.
They did not know why they stayed, why they hung on, why they continued grimly at this barren hunt. But something held them there together: they could not say good-bye and part. Ann hung on sullenly, angrily, in a kind of stubborn silence, saying little, ordering brandy at the bars and cafés, champagne132 in the night resorts, drinking little herself, sitting by him in a sullen25, angry silence while he drank.
He was like a maddened animal: he raved, stormed, shouted, cursed, implored133, entreated134, reviled135 her and made love to her at once — there was no sense, or reason, or coherence136 in anything he said: it came out of him in one tortured expletive, the urge of the baffled touch, that conflict of blind love and hate and speechless agony, in his tormented spirit:
“Oh, Ann! . . . You lovely bitch! . . . You big, dark, dumb, lovely, sullen Boston bitch! . . . Oh, you bitch! You bitch!” he groaned, and seizing her hand, he caught it to him and said desperately, “Ann, Ann, I love you! . . . You’re the greatest . . . grandest . . . best . . . most beautiful girl that ever lived . . . Ann! Look at me — you big, ox-dumb brute137. . . . Oh, you bitch. . . . You Boston bitch. . . . Will it never come out of you? . . . Won’t you ever let it come? . . . Can’t it be thawed138, melted, shaken loose? . . . Oh, you dumb, dark, sullen, lovely bitch . . . is there nothing there? . . . is this all you are? . . . Oh, Ann, you sweet, dumb wretch139 if you only knew how much I love you —”
“God!” she cried, with her quick, short and angry laugh that gave her face its sudden, radiant tenderness, its indescribable loveliness and purity, “— God! But you’re the gallant140 lover, aren’t you? First you love me, then you hate me, then I’m a dumb, sullen Boston bitch, and then a wretch and then the grandest and most beautiful girl that ever lived! God, you’re wonderful, you are!” She laughed bitterly. “You say such charming things.”
“Oh, you bitch!” he groaned miserably. “You big, sweet, dumb, and lovely bitch — Ann, Ann, for God’s sake, speak to me, talk to me!” He seized her hand and shook it frantically141. “Say just one word to show me you’re alive — that you’ve got one single atom of life and love and beauty in you. Ann, Ann — look at me! In God’s name, tell me, what are you? Is there nothing there? Have you nothing in you? For Christ’s sake, try to say a single, living word — for Christ’s sake, try to show me that you’re worth it, that it’s not all death and codfish, Boston, Back Bay, and cold fishes’ blood”— he raved on incoherently.
“Oh! Boston and cold fishes’ blood, my eye!” she muttered, with an angry flush in her face.
“And you? — What are you?” he jeered. “For God’s sake, what kind of woman are you? I never heard you speak a word that a child of ten could not have spoken. I never heard you say a thing that ought to be remembered. The only things I know about you are that you are a Boston spinstress — thirty — no longer very young — a few grey hairs already on your head — comfortably secure on dead investments — over here on a spree — away from father and the family and The Boston Evening Transcript142 — but never losing them: always knowing that you will return to them — in God’s name, woman, is that all you are?”
She laughed her sudden, short and angry laugh, and yet there was no rancour in it.
“That’s what Frank would call a brief but masterly description, isn’t it? I suppose I should be grateful.” She looked at him with quiet eyes, and said simply: “What of it? Even if what you say is true, what of it? As you say, I’m just a dull, ordinary kind of person, and until you and Francis came along no one thought me anything else or thought any the less of me for being like that. Listen”— her voice was hard and straight and sullen —“what do you expect people to be, anyway? Do you think it’s fair and decent to talk about how beautiful I am when I’m not beautiful, and then to turn and curse me because I’m just an ordinary girl?” She was silent a moment, with an angry flush upon her face, and then she said: “As for my intellect, I went to Bryn Mawr, and I got through without flunking143, with a C average. That’s about the kind of brain I’ve got.” She turned and looked at him with straight, angry eyes, now shut a little with tears.
“What of it?” she said. “You say that I am dull and dumb and ordinary — well, I never pretended to be anything else. You know, we all can’t be great geniuses, like you and Francis,” she said, and suddenly her eyes were wet, and tears began to trickle144 down across her flushed face. “I’m just what I am, I’ve never pretended to be any different — if you think I’m dull and stupid and ordinary, you have no right to insult me like this. — Come on, I’m going home.”— She started to get up, he seized her, pulled her to him.
“Oh, you bitch! . . . You big, dumb, lovely bitch! . . . Oh, Ann, Ann, you sweet devil, how I love you — I can never let you go — oh, Goddamn you, Ann —”
It ended at last, at daybreak in a bistro near Les Halles, where they had often gone at dawn with Elinor and Starwick for rolls and chocolate or coffee. Outside they could hear the nightly roar and rumble145 of the market, the cries of the vendors146, and smell all the sweet smells of earth and morning, of first light, health, and joy, and day beginning.
When they left the bistro full light had come, and they at length had fallen silent. They realized that it was useless, hopeless, and impossible, that nothing could be said.
He left her at the gate outside the studio. She pressed the bell, the gate swung open, and for a moment before she left him she stood looking at him with a flushed, angry face, wet angry eyes — a look of dumb, sullen misery147 that tore at his heart, and for which he had no word.
“Good-bye,” she said, “if I don’t see you again —” She paused and clenched her fists together at her side, closed her eyes, tears spurted148 out, and in a choking voice she cried out:
“Oh, this will be a fine thing for me all right! This trip has just been wonderful. God! I’m sorry that I ever saw any of you —”
“Ann! Ann!”
“If you need money — if you’re broke —”
“Ann!”
“God!” she cried again. “Why did I ever come?”
She was weeping bitterly, and with a blind, infuriated movement she rushed through the gate and slammed it behind her. He never saw her again.
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abrupt
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crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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agonizing
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| adj.痛苦难忍的；使人苦恼的v.使极度痛苦；折磨(agonize的ing形式) | |
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4
embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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cane
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| n.手杖，细长的茎，藤条；v.以杖击，以藤编制的 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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bestial
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| adj.残忍的；野蛮的 | |
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grimace
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| v.做鬼脸，面部歪扭 | |
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evasion
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| n.逃避，偷漏(税) | |
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constraint
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| n.(on)约束，限制；限制(或约束)性的事物 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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rue
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| n.懊悔，芸香，后悔；v.后悔，悲伤，懊悔 | |
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jeered
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| v.嘲笑( jeer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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18
victorious
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| adj.胜利的，得胜的 | |
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19
meek
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| adj.温顺的，逆来顺受的 | |
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20
tormented
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| 饱受折磨的 | |
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21
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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22
mannerism
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| n.特殊习惯，怪癖 | |
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23
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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24
sullenly
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| 不高兴地，绷着脸，忧郁地 | |
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sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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27
spacious
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| adj.广阔的，宽敞的 | |
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28
provincial
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| adj.省的，地方的；n．外省人，乡下人 | |
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29
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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30
enigma
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| n.谜，谜一样的人或事 | |
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31
taint
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| n.污点；感染；腐坏；v.使感染；污染 | |
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32
warp
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| vt.弄歪，使翘曲，使不正常，歪曲，使有偏见 | |
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33
perverse
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| adj.刚愎的；坚持错误的，行为反常的 | |
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34
demons
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| n.恶人( demon的名词复数 )；恶魔；精力过人的人；邪念 | |
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35
goad
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| n.刺棒，刺痛物；激励；vt.激励，刺激 | |
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36
obstinacy
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| n.顽固；（病痛等）难治 | |
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37
deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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38
shamefully
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| 可耻地； 丢脸地； 不体面地； 羞耻地 | |
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39
wasteful
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| adj.（造成）浪费的，挥霍的 | |
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40
inexplicable
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| adj.无法解释的，难理解的 | |
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41
eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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42
instinctive
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| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
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43
unity
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| n.团结，联合，统一；和睦，协调 | |
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44
poised
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| a.摆好姿势不动的 | |
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45
ledge
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| n.壁架，架状突出物；岩架，岩礁 | |
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46
strife
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| n.争吵，冲突，倾轧，竞争 | |
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47
phantoms
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| n.鬼怪，幽灵( phantom的名词复数 ) | |
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48
dispersed
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| adj. 被驱散的, 被分散的, 散布的 | |
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49
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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50
tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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51
battered
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| adj.磨损的；v.连续猛击；磨损 | |
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52
monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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53
deafened
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| 使聋( deafen的过去式和过去分词 )； 使隔音 | |
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54
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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55
stammered
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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56
miserably
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| adv.痛苦地；悲惨地；糟糕地；极度地 | |
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57
avowal
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| n.公开宣称，坦白承认 | |
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58
haze
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| n.霾，烟雾；懵懂，迷糊；vi.(over)变模糊 | |
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59
shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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60
murmurous
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| adj.低声的 | |
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61
sensuous
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| adj.激发美感的；感官的，感觉上的 | |
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62
fragrance
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| n.芬芳，香味，香气 | |
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63
potent
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| adj.强有力的，有权势的；有效力的 | |
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64
intoxication
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| n.wild excitement;drunkenness；poisoning | |
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65
pungent
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| adj.（气味、味道）刺激性的，辛辣的；尖锐的 | |
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66
incense
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| v.激怒；n.香，焚香时的烟，香气 | |
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67
numbed
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| v.使麻木，使麻痹( numb的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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68
swarming
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| 密集( swarm的现在分词 )； 云集； 成群地移动； 蜜蜂或其他飞行昆虫成群地飞来飞去 | |
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69
swarm
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| n.(昆虫)等一大群；vi.成群飞舞；蜂拥而入 | |
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70
dense
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| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
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71
snarl
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| v.吼叫，怒骂，纠缠，混乱；n.混乱，缠结，咆哮 | |
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72
throbbing
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| a. 跳动的,悸动的 | |
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73
machinery
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| n.(总称)机械，机器；机构 | |
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74
colonnades
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| n.石柱廊( colonnade的名词复数 ) | |
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75
thronging
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| v.成群，挤满( throng的现在分词 ) | |
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76
maze
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| n.迷宫，八阵图，混乱，迷惑 | |
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77
chattering
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| n. （机器振动发出的）咔嗒声，(鸟等)鸣，啁啾 adj. 喋喋不休的，啾啾声的 动词chatter的现在分词形式 | |
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78
curt
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| adj.简短的，草率的 | |
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79
curtly
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| adv.简短地 | |
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80
manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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81
whining
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| n. 抱怨，牢骚 v. 哭诉，发牢骚 | |
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82
whine
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| v.哀号，号哭；n.哀鸣 | |
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83
jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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84
sneered
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| 讥笑，冷笑( sneer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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85
parody
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| n.打油诗文，诙谐的改编诗文，拙劣的模仿；v.拙劣模仿，作模仿诗文 | |
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86
lout
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| n.粗鄙的人；举止粗鲁的人 | |
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87
decency
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| n.体面，得体，合宜，正派，庄重 | |
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88
snob
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| n.势利小人，自以为高雅、有学问的人 | |
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89
snobby
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| a.虚荣的 | |
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90
snarled
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| v.（指狗）吠，嗥叫， （人）咆哮( snarl的过去式和过去分词 )；咆哮着说，厉声地说 | |
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91
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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92
swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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93
rankled
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| v.（使）痛苦不已，（使）怨恨不已( rankle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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94
fiddle
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| n.小提琴；vi.拉提琴；不停拨弄，乱动 | |
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95
raved
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| v.胡言乱语( rave的过去式和过去分词 )；愤怒地说；咆哮；痴心地说 | |
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96
lamely
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| 一瘸一拐地，不完全地 | |
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97
desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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98
raving
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| adj.说胡话的；疯狂的，怒吼的；非常漂亮的；令人醉心[痴心]的v.胡言乱语(rave的现在分词)n.胡话；疯话adv.胡言乱语地；疯狂地 | |
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99
sarcastically
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| adv.挖苦地，讽刺地 | |
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100
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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101
remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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102
humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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103
revile
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| v.辱骂，谩骂 | |
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104
groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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105
smote
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| v.猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去式 ) | |
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106
flaring
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| a.火焰摇曳的，过份艳丽的 | |
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107
resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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108
rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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109
clenched
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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110
frustration
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| n.挫折，失败，失效，落空 | |
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111
rouge
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| n.胭脂，口红唇膏；v.(在…上)擦口红 | |
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112
dome
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| n.圆屋顶，拱顶 | |
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113
stew
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| n.炖汤，焖，烦恼；v.炖汤，焖，忧虑 | |
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114
joint
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| adj.联合的，共同的；n.关节，接合处；v.连接，贴合 | |
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115
rogues
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| n.流氓( rogue的名词复数 )；无赖；调皮捣蛋的人；离群的野兽 | |
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116
excrement
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| n.排泄物，粪便 | |
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117
labyrinth
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| n.迷宫；难解的事物；迷路 | |
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118
garish
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| adj.华丽而俗气的，华而不实的 | |
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119
tarnished
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| （通常指金属）（使）失去光泽，（使）变灰暗( tarnish的过去式和过去分词 )； 玷污，败坏 | |
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120
sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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121
intoxicating
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| a. 醉人的,使人兴奋的 | |
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122
sordid
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| adj.肮脏的，不干净的，卑鄙的，暗淡的 | |
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123
waning
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| adj.（月亮）渐亏的，逐渐减弱或变小的n.月亏v.衰落( wane的现在分词 )；（月）亏；变小；变暗淡 | |
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124
carnival
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| n.嘉年华会，狂欢，狂欢节，巡回表演 | |
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125
inchoate
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| adj.才开始的，初期的 | |
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126
triumphantly
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| ad.得意洋洋地；得胜地；成功地 | |
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127
frenzied
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| a.激怒的；疯狂的 | |
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128
frustrate
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| v.使失望；使沮丧；使厌烦 | |
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129
hustled
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| 催促（hustle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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130
slant
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| v.倾斜，倾向性地编写或报道；n.斜面，倾向 | |
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131
plunge
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| v.跳入，(使)投入，(使)陷入；猛冲 | |
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132
champagne
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| n.香槟酒；微黄色 | |
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133
implored
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| 恳求或乞求（某人）( implore的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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134
entreated
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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135
reviled
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| v.辱骂，痛斥( revile的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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136
coherence
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| n.紧凑；连贯；一致性 | |
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137
brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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138
thawed
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| 解冻 | |
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139
wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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140
gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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141
frantically
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| ad.发狂地, 发疯地 | |
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142
transcript
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| n.抄本，誊本，副本，肄业证书 | |
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143
flunking
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| v.( flunk的现在分词 )；（使）（考试、某学科的成绩等）不及格；评定（某人）不及格；（因不及格而） 退学 | |
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144
trickle
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| vi.淌，滴，流出，慢慢移动，逐渐消散 | |
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145
rumble
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| n.隆隆声；吵嚷；v.隆隆响；低沉地说 | |
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146
vendors
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| n.摊贩( vendor的名词复数 )；小贩；（房屋等的）卖主；卖方 | |
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147
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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148
spurted
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| （液体，火焰等）喷出，（使）涌出( spurt的过去式和过去分词 )； （短暂地）加速前进，冲刺 | |
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